Desire
Tools to stay just out of reach
I desire to be desired.
I crave to be craved.
I yearn to be yearned for.
I lust—for someone to lust after me.
I secretly beg to be begged for.
Cry to be cried out for.
Throb to be throbbed over.
But to what end?
I collect crushes and hearts like stickers—
cute ones, shiny ones,
ones with little phrases that make me feel seen.
I think about putting them on my laptop,
my mirror,
my water bottle.
But I never peel them.
What if I change my mind?
What if I waste them?
What if I find a better place later?
So I keep them in a box,
stacked and safe,
knowing they’re mine
even if no one ever sees them.
But when desire starts to reach for me,
a hand on my shoulder,
a gaze that lingers too long,
a part of me goes quiet.
I slip behind the curtain,
or float somewhere above,
watching it all unfold—
the wanting, the reaching,
the mess I’ve made.
My body stays.
It softens, nods, maybe even smiles.
But I am already gone.
I leave before anyone
can touch me
or look too far inside.
I’ve learned to work with what I have.
A big chest.
A toothy smile.
Soft cheeks, short legs, bright eyes.
The way people look at me
before they know anything about me.
I didn’t ask for these tools,
but I use them.
I have to.
To be noticed.
To survive.
To slip past doors
that were never meant to open
for someone brown and broke like me.
And still, I flinch
when someone looks too long.
When I can feel myself being swallowed.
When I’m seen,
but not known.
I hold all of it.
The wanting,
the vanishing,
the shame,
the performance.
I still want something
I don’t know how to name.
